


Punctilious

by DriftingGlass



Series: The Afterschool Library Chronicle [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Child Abuse, Developing Friendships, Drama, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gon Being Flirty, Gonkillu - Freeform, Homosexuality, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Killua Being Oblivious, Killugon - Freeform, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Gon Freecss, Protectiveness, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Teenagers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-10-20 00:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10651614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DriftingGlass/pseuds/DriftingGlass
Summary: [ Punctilious - "strict or exact in the observance of formalities or amenities of conduct or actions." ]Gon’s jaw tightens. He suppresses the anger, desperate to smile for Killua, to get him to calm down before he knows the other will crack and there will be no way to stop it.Somehow, he knows this will happen. They’ve known each other for four months. Yet, the unbridled hostilities and vulnerabilities displayed between them without the other knowing has become more and more prominent. More and more unstable.And all the more exciting.- in which Killua is responsible for tutoring Gon, and both are oblivious idiots. Told in parts. -





	1. The Roots of Anger

Killua hasn’t looked at him the entire day.

The pencil rotates in his fingers. An unsettling nausea creeps in the base of his skull. Gon glances down at his test, the giant red slashes of marker across the top of the page, and ignores the image of his adoptive mother scolding him for “slacking off.” If Mito actually managed to glance over his work and observe how much effort he put into the time he spent with Killua—

He shakes his head, gnawing on his bottom lip. He glances at Killua, releasing a deep, unsure sigh. He’d already tried saying hello to him before the bell rang that morning, and not once did the white-haired student lift his head to acknowledge him. The air between them had turned irrevocably cold, raising the hairs on the nape of his neck.

He takes out a piece of notebook paper and scribbles on the lines, not even bothering to double-check over his possible spelling mistakes, and tosses the crumpled ball at the back of his tutor’s head. He notes Killua’s shoulders stiffen and his left arm tic in response, but he doesn’t turn around or even stop transcribing notes into his own booklet.

Gon rolls his eyes. _Come on, Killua. Please._ He wants to talk to him, and his patience is already wearing thin. The lack of communication between them over the last few days had bothered him incessantly, and the fact that he managed to get a single word out of Killua at all on Wednesday, the day after he’d texted Killua and never got an answer back, he knew something was wrong. Did he do something to upset him? What could he have done in that brief span of time to upset his tutor?

The bell rings. Their teacher—Gon can’t even remember her name at the moment—presses her chalk into the blackboard as soon as the sound echoes in their classroom. Gon perks up, scanning his fellow students, and when he turns back to Killua’s desk—

He’s gone.

“Killua?” he wonders aloud, and just then notices the whiff of white hair disappearing around the corner of the room, just out the door, where blurs of color and cotton whirl in disproportionate rainbows. He gets up, slings his backpack over his shoulder, and bolts after him without a second thought. He hears his teacher bellowing, but he doesn’t turn to acknowledge him.

The hallway is clustered from wall to wall with oily green lockers and teenagers ripe with too many scents to count. Vanilla and rose perfume mix in with cologne and sweat and desperation, and Gon can hardly distinguish the smells when all he can focus on is the familiar tangent stream of spearmint and cucumber he often takes into account off of Killua’s trademark sweaters. Sweaters and matching button-up shirts and trousers and that frumpy collar that always exudes that same air of masculine untidiness—

He calms his racing heart, swallowing. What if something was actually _wrong_ with Killua? Why wouldn’t he talk to him? Why didn’t he bother looking him in the eye?

Unsure of where to begin, Gon walks to his locker, glancing around him to survey his surroundings. He’s not sure why it suddenly feels emptier, even though he’s never glimpsed a crowd this large on school grounds in what seemed to be so long, and he would be lying if he didn’t find the sensations of concern and uncertainty rippling through his veins to be simultaneously jarring and _frightening_.

He could text Leorio, and ask him for advice… then again, his friend was not the best with advice on these matters. He was selectively wise, so to speak, but he wasn’t particularly fond of Killua over their initial meeting, and he didn’t know Killua well-enough to have a good verdict stored up his sleeve. There was hardly any reason for him to reach out to him at all, even though he wanted, more than anything, to gain a vapid understanding of what was occurring in the moment.

 _Leorio, or maybe, someone else? Think, Gon!_ He doesn’t realize how hard his fists are clenched, how fiercely his fingernails drive into his dry palms. He doesn’t realize how quickly he reels his fists back, and how devastatingly hard they slam into his lockers, and how much it _fucking hurts like hell_ until he feels the blood well over his knuckles and drip onto the floor.

Students stop and stare. He doesn’t hear them. He doesn’t register them. The hammering in his skull and the temporal blood simmering in his eardrums reminds him he’s not alone, yet completely solitude at the same time. He glances up, blinking rapidly towards the blank space of his locker, where not a single photograph or magnet waits to greet him with the same enthusiasm he flashes to other students each and every day, and closes it. He winces at the impact of his hand on the locker door, his knuckles chafed from the brief infliction on metal.

“G-Gon?”

He blinks and turns around, staring at a tiny brunette girl with a pink shirt beneath her uniform jacket. Her eyes turn glassy and she steps back, as if unsure of him. He raises an eyebrow, and blinks in apology as he realizes she’s staring at his hands, and not just her. Many people are.

A mix of confusion and judgment thwart each and every glare.

“Sorry. Um. It happens, sometimes. Sorry.” He attempts to laugh it off, but it’s strained. Painful. He can’t even muster the will to truly walk away and not acknowledge the strange way he’s not thriving off the pressure of others staring in his direction. He normally lives for that sensation, for the chills racing up his spine and the loud voices urging him to dash as far as his screaming muscles will allow during the toughest games. The basketball’s ridges turn imaginary in his calloused palms, and he witnesses the other students on the stand, his teammates being proud, a few select faces and the tense, corner-tilted smile of Killua Zoldyck—

He shakes his head. A throbbing headache returns, far worse than the last.

* * *

The tension remains long after class. Gon arrives in the cafeteria, avoiding his teammates’ wary glances and the concerned looks other students are throwing towards him. He walks by the lines slapping frozen burger patties on their plates and silently hopes none of them will bother talking to him. He’s not interested in talking to anyone at the moment; his thoughts are simple, as are his motivations, but the only concerns he has at the moment are not even worthy of being satisfied.

Ging would’ve pegged him as a coward, maybe, for being so hopeful towards his newfound friendship with Killua. He had the patience necessary to wait for Killua to talk to him if need be, but the incredibly large, selfish part of him wanted nothing more than to scout him out, corner him against the wall and beg him to tell him what was wrong. He had a right as his friend and sometimes-student, right? Killua was his tutor _and_ a friend he trusted, so he had the obligation to seek him out when he wanted to, right?

His temples pulse and inwardly bang, like a sledgehammer being slammed into his skull. He grits his teeth, imagines this painful scenario as some physical force, so he can bring his fists to it. It’s easier for him to picture his enemies as something palpable, something tangible—a strategy he’d become familiar with as soon as he started participating in athletics.

But scuffling his shoes on the basketball court and pretending the basket was someone’s face was not going to help him in his current dilemma. He couldn’t pinpoint where the anger was coming from, where the frustration was brewing, or how fiercely it took hold of his subconscious and steered him in one direction, and then another and another…

He doesn’t know where he decides to sit down or why, but he does eventually feel his back slide down against concrete, and he tastes the salty breeze of the outside world. Robins chirp in the distance, forming romantic circles and flapping pitter-patter wings in rhythmic banter. His backpack slumps off his shoulders and gathers by him. He finally refocuses, feels the sting in his bloodied knuckles, the rumble of hunger in his stomach, the dreadful headache growing worse and worse in his skull.

Right. And, he’s on the roof. Of course.

“Gon?”

Gon’s jaw nearly drops at the sudden intrusive voice. He glances towards the only other person on the rooftop, sitting cross-legged by the railings with a cup of instant ramen held in his hands. Killua stares back at him with wide, confused cerulean irises, shimmering just slightly under the glare of the noonday sun.

“Killua!” Gon exclaims before he can stop himself, bolting to his feet. Instantly, at the sight of Killua’s tenseness and change in expression, his ears and neck color. Just slightly, but it’s enough, and he’s not even sure why he’s so tentative out of nowhere.

Killua turns away. He’s quiet.

“Killua,” says Gon, unsure with the weight of the air between them. He sees Killua shift, as if he’s deciding whether or not to try and maneuver around him and reach the door, but Gon knows that he won’t let him. He wants answers, and for the briefest second he’s not sure if he can completely consider Killua’s feelings. “Um, Killua, are you…” He hesitates.

"Gon.”

 Gon lifts up his head. Killua is still so far away, but the glazed look in his eyes have turned bleaker. Like clouds drifting over the ocean. The waves ripple into stilled layers.

“Don’t worry about it. Honestly. It’s not your problem.”

He scratches the back of his head, tufts of snowy hair ruffled in the breeze, and Gon can’t help but count the various strands sweeping along his forehead, grazing his porcelain skin. There’s a gauntness to his cheekbone, to the curve of the collarbones beneath his ruffled shirt, and Gon has caught himself tracing his eyes along Killua’s frame on more than one occasion, listening to the sound of his voice, noting the fluctuations and carefully pieced changes in tone of each declaration, whether it was important or not.

“Why isn’t it?” Gon blurts out.

Killua seems just as startled. His gaze hardens into a glare, the fists bunched in his pockets visibly crunching around the fabric. “What the hell does that mean? Of course it can’t be your problem, stupid!”

Something in the air cracks. Like a bolt of lightning, it careens through the air between the two teenagers, reverberates through Gon’s skull as a secondary stream of headaches, and he can feel his muscles tightening in some automatic response. He notes the desperate clouds of tiredness bruising Killua’s eyes, the dreadful weight burdening his shoulders, the rawness of his lips and the growing pale tone of his already startlingly white skin…

And then, he hears a voice. Sinister, and dark, it disturbs him, slithers into his subconscious in the guise of a serpent; a disembodied shadow with an equally undisturbed heart. It’s unlike his own yet beats alongside the organ thumping in his chest and pumping his lifeblood.

Urges rise inside him he’s not familiar with. Even from his vantage point, he zeroes in on the first mistake Killua has made since he’s started seeing him outside of their tutoring sessions.

A giant, vicious bruise—in the shape of a massive, brutish hand, with long, almost claw-like fingers and reddening impact—has been made visible from beneath the windswept sleeves of Killua’s sweater. He’s removed the garment, where his pinstriped button-up shirt is left with little to the imagination in terms of the currents of wind. The bruise is certainly not the only one. It carries weight that Gon can’t fathom, and he doesn’t want to fathom it because it would cause him to imagine Killua being _hurt_.

Killua… Killua was hurt. Someone hurt him.

_Someone hurt him._

Gon’s breath hitches. He feels his consciousness beginning to slip. Killua’s anger slips in unison, watching Gon carefully as his companion only grows more rigid while his blank copper eyes sweep across Killua’s body in one generous heap.

Killua would’ve been thoroughly embarrassed if he had not figured out instantly what Gon had seen. Gon knows that Killua can tell exactly what he’s witnessed. His breathing turns labored, the words jumbling in incoherent thoughts in his mind, and all he can think about is scrolling through a list of names who would dare hurt his friend without even batting one eyelash—

“Gon. Listen. You’re—you’re reacting to something. I think. It’s not that bad—”

“Tell me who did it.” Gon’s voice drips with acid. It levels his voice with the deepest pits of fire and rolls through gravel and dust, the very earthy tones Killua has often associated him with. There were times during their sessions together where Killua would tease him about the green clothes he wore outside of school and his love for nature; the greenness, the love for animals and plants, stuck to him like a second skin. Even now, in this penchant sleuth of rage he cannot deny, that same ferocity lingers in his mind. It’s dangerous and bloodthirsty. And it’s growing.

A parasite of sorts. It’s the only thing he can think of comparing it to. Killua… Killua would know what type of situation to compare this feeling to. He was much smarter than him. He knew that. Killua always knew the answer when he didn’t. It was why they clicked so well. But why didn’t he tell him? Why was he afraid—

“ _Gon_ , you don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? It’s not your business.”

 _Why are you protecting this person?_ Gon is seething. He sees splotches of red, like patterns of blood on a windshield wiper. _Why does this person matter to you?_

No one hurt Killua. No one was allowed to touch him, to _harm_ him or _mark_ him like that and get away with it.

A vicious, echoing _smack_ echoes off the rooftop.

Gon blinks, slowly shakes his head, and turns to stare in the liquefying gaze of his friend and somehow already-incredibly-important companion with large, childish eyes. Upon closer inspection, he can see additional redness swelling into Killua’s eyes, layering over the bruises marring his cheekbones and chin, the finger-shaped welts dusting what’s visible of his neck. The sun is glinting off his wild white hair and the shadows somehow make his sea-glass orbs stir even brighter, more alive than ever before this day with embers Gon has not come to recognize yet.

He looks exhausted. Drained. And to the deepest part of Killua Gon can read the fluctuating levels of _fright_ coiling through his body in waves.

And beneath that…

He was terrified. Killua is shaking. He’s trembling beyond his control, as if slapping Gon to wake him out of whatever stupor he was suffering through was not enough to let him know exactly what was happening in his mind. Gon wants to ask so many questions, wants to hug Killua and press him chest-to-chest and tell him everything was going to be okay, even though more than anything he wished he could find whoever did this to the Zoldyck and make him _pay_.

“You _can’t_ be involved.”

Killua is struggling to hold on. The sculptured image of perfect student Killua Zoldyck crumbling before him—beyond the intricate cursive symbols of his immaculate handwriting and delicately arranged certificate and trophy collection—warns Gon to stay back, to listen to this incredibly flawed and struggling person as he breathes and chokes on his own words.

Gon’s jaw tightens. He suppresses the anger, desperate to smile for Killua, to get him to calm down before he knows the other will crack and there will be no way to stop it.

Somehow, he knows this will happen. They’ve known each other for four months. Yet, the unbridled hostilities and vulnerabilities displayed between them without the other knowing has become more and more prominent. More and more unstable.

And all the more exciting.

Gon doesn’t listen. As per usual. He grabs Killua’s wrists and pulls him in, allowing his chest to be pulled directly against his, his arms encasing the other as tightly as possible. Mito always hugged him when he was upset, always stroked his hair and whispered comforting words to him when he dreamt of his father abandoning them for the umpteenth time.

Killua is stiff and uncomfortable, but he allows it all the same. He doesn’t cry.

* * *

Gon and Killua do not go their separate ways as they normally would when the bell rings.

“Come stay at my place.”

“Gon, you know I can’t do that.”

“And why not?”

“You know _exactly_ why.” Bitter. Venomous. Distant.

He leaves, and Gon isn't sure whether or not he should follow. Killua does not test him.

Gon is unsure and angry, but he allows it all the same. He doesn’t scream.


	2. Before. After.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changes are made. Secrets are kept. Wires get crossed, but it's nowhere near the end.

“So, Killu, make sure to open up your schedule for Milluki’s birthday next week. Oh, of course, I doubt that Illumi would make such a silly mistake as take you to any event on that Tuesday. Yes, yes, that sounds about right. Of course.”

As usual, his mother’s half-cybernetic voice cycles through his eardrums in an irrepressible loop. Stares burn into the back of his skull, but he’s not interested in returning these glares, in surveying the disappointment on his father’s middle-aged Zoldyck features—a square jaw, bushy black eyebrows, cascading silver hair rivaling the ripple of moonbeams—all because he’s not in a state of mind to respond to his mother.

In that instant, a thick wooden plank slaps onto his wrist. He flinches, barely noticeable under the flickering chandelier lights hanging over the dinner table, and stares into his plate. A fresh roll of buttered bread, seasoned vegetables, and a seared stank flank are resting untouched and growing cold on the porcelain platter. The stinging pain of the wooden stick hitting his body sends a shiver through his bones, but he’s not going to give Canary the reaction he knows she hates even more than he does.

She’s mastered the ability to remain stone-cold in her expression since the very first day she was told to hit him across the face at five years old for his insubordinate behavior. Yet, Killua knows her better than anyone else in her life, and he taps his fingers on the table one time to let her know the usual, silent message: _I’m fine._

He slowly lifts his gaze to meet his mother’s. Those fiery red slits buzz back and forth across a black screen, betraying any sense of humanity that she’s borrowed through robotics and hundreds of bank-breaking surgeries. He’s lost count of how many times she’d kindly asked her husband to finance her self-esteem, trading, at first, her fingernails for permanent French tips. Then, she began to hate her hair, asking for it to be turned from ink-black to ice-blonde, always concealed beneath some sort of ridiculous flowered hat. Her skin, she wanted pale and smooth, “like porcelain,” as she’s always stared in adoration at her “beautiful children.”

Killua was always the prime target of her inopportune jealousies. She’d wondered how she could have given birth to him, with his wintry locks and startling eyes that seemed almost wizard-like with how powerful they could be in commanding others to obey. His skin, the shade she wanted. His bone structure, the way she wanted. His eyes, oh, yes, always his eyes—she’d always wanted those from the very beginning.

Her robotic features were temporary. That’s what she always claimed. Temporary.

“Killua.”

He draws his gaze from his mother to his father, ignoring the tension rolling into his shoulders, the stringing of bruised muscle sliding over cracked bone.

“Speak to your mother. She’s talking to you.”

_Oh, I hadn’t gathered that_ , Killua thinks bitterly, tempted to snap at his father. It’s rare for him to be separate from his siblings for a private dinner with his parents, and so far, with more than an hour of awkward stalling and eating silently (while he hasn’t been able to touch his plate), Killua hasn’t come to any sort of conclusion as to why this is.

“Illumi informed your mother and I that you’ve been missing from your room on Sunday afternoons and Saturday nights.”

He stiffens, calmly brushes aside the notion of panic that drums in his skull. If his parents have gone through his room, have found his phone, gone through his texts or seen any names pop up on his screen that he would never want them to know about—

S _tay calm. Stay calm._

He shrugs and cocks one eyebrow at his father. “There’s no problem with my grades.”

This is the truth, he knows. His hours studying at school and making up for lost time with his forced sessions with Illumi have been condensed at the cost of extra stress and time he doesn’t have. The faster the clock moves, the faster he works, and it’s been enough to maintain his spot as the top student of his graduating class and heading towards that Valedictorian pedestal, embellished with all sorts of honors and awards and bullshit recognition stamps.

Things he doesn’t give two fucks about.

But, skipping out on those sessions always means he can go and see Gon. His secret companion through tutoring and adventures that have grown more and more… interesting, the longer he’s come to know the odd jock. Their time together is always geared towards academics, but there’s always that same undertone of something else, that unspoken request for another conversation, another playful nudge in the arm, another invitation to go to the skating rink or grab ice cream and race each other next to the local river.

Gon always listened to him, always took him to wherever he wanted to go to get his mind off schoolwork and off his family. He’d never shed details on his parents to him, or even bothered answering any of his questions, but he knew he always needed to hide the evidence of what happened in his household.

He doesn’t know how to admit how freeing his time with Gon Freecss had come to be. And the thought of his parents taking that away from him—or worse, getting Gon involved even further in his affairs as a Zoldyck—creates a terrible knot in his stomach that’s worse than feeling kicked in the ribs by his brother, or even by the butlers who serve his parents with reckless abandon. All except Canary.

“True, we haven’t heard anything about your grades dropping. Though it’s not the problem of whether or not your grades have improved or lessened in quality, son.”

Killua almost snorts at the word _son_. It sounds so laughable coming from his father, who reminds him more of a marble statue with lips and eyes carved out of ice than a real flesh-and-blood human. It’s strange, actually, to taste an invisible sensation of something vile and incongruent on his tongue, as if a string of results is lodged behind his teeth, begging to be released.

“Then what’s the problem?” He almost curses; his tongue is just slightly off. His father will catch it for sure, let his butlers know, and one of them will hit him for it later after dinner. Afterwards is needed because, of course, he can’t afford to get any blood on the table.

“Watch your tone, son,” says Silva. He takes a sip of his wine and shoots a glance towards a dark-skinned, blonde butler in the corner, who’s hands are clenched behind his back but his glare is covered behind a smooth new pair of shades. He will be the one to do it, Killua realizes; he’s not sure why this is still even reasonable with how he’s never been _changed_.

His parents have always spoken of grooming him to be the perfect heir to their underworld, criminal distribution—a world teeming with black trades and funneled money from businesses hidden behind invisible walls and shining teeth. He can hardly picture walking in those steps, smiling crookedly, cocking handguns and whoring himself out to corporations for the sake of the possible money his family can gather from his efforts.

Growing up, Illumi would tuck his strands of hair away from his eyes, look him over, and claim he was “pretty” and “cute.” He’d never thought outside of the implications, wondered why his older brother would say something about his much younger sibling when he hardly ever acknowledged his other brothers this way.

Perhaps the fact that he is, apparently, considered this way has been a beacon of sorts to other companies and businesses willing to invest in the Zoldycks. He’s crossed his father’s office on days where he’s overheard phone calls asking for him by name, with his father calmly relaying the news that his “son is not for sale.”

He doesn’t want to think of a punishment or fate worse than the one he’s already destined for. He plasters on brilliant smiles for teachers when he hands in spectacular reports, and hides his bruises convincingly beneath long sleeves and pants that would never dare expose his blemished skin on other occasions, even in the most sweltering summer days, and yet, he can hardly fathom how only one person would react if he knew.

If Gon knew, he… what would he think of him?

_He…_ what would he think? He had this expectation of Killua, this image of his tutor being somehow “cool” and “amazing” (words Killua has heard Gon say about him without the other realizing he’s daydreaming and muttering) and it would undoubtedly be tarnished if he knew the truth. If Killua mentioned one word about what happened to his one friend, he would lose him.

Gon would leave, because people with hearts that big and souls as gentle and golden as his, with expectations and dreams and spectacularly simple as his, deserve better.

_He deserves better._ Killua suppresses the strange urge to clench his fists beneath the table, knowing that the butlers are watching his every move, hoping that he eats his salad and steak and politely excuses himself only when his parents are finished, but he can’t afford to bring that up at this moment. Rather than focus on his anger for Kikyou and Silva, Gon’s laughter—no, not just that, but the way he talks, the way he moves, the way he pushes Killua into situations he knows he’ll regret later (and never does), how Gon just… _is._

There’s no one like Gon Freecss and the fact that Bisky Krueger pushed Killua to tutor Gon in the first place became a blessing he’d never know was possible.

“Killu, it is impolite to daydream at the dinner table!”

His mother is laughing, but it travels on static rhythm, threatening to tumble off and into its own rock-infested pit by the time she’s finished. He knows how much he pushes her, how close he’s always been to shoving her just enough to maybe, just maybe, tip her over the edge and watch as she cracks.

“Is breathing impolite too?” he snaps.

Then, it’s quiet.

One could hear a _leaf_ brush the multimillion dollar carpet if need be.

“Killu,” his mother whispers, disbelief smothering her in every angle. Killua bites his tongue hard enough to taste blood, knowing it’s the only thing he’ll be allowed to consume for days. He should’ve taken a bite of his posh food when he had the chance. “How… oh my, you are so _aggressive_ at this time of day. Surely it’s because you haven’t eaten. Now, eat.”

Killua seethes. “No. I’m not going to.”

Silva’s eyes widen, but that’s the only reaction he gives. He stares into Killua’s profile while the other glares across the table towards Kikyou. A silent storm brews in the dining hall.

“Killu, now that’s ridiculous. Enough with this nonsense, alright? We can get some chocolate cake afterwards and talk about some other projects your father is working on—”

“Oh, so you plan to control not just tonight, but every night for the rest of my life, right? You don’t have _concerns_ because I don’t have any friends to, what, _steer me away_? You can stop acting like I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m not your fucking puppet.”

He’s standing, now, and he doesn’t know how or why, but he’s yelling, and the way his voice carries shakes the walls of the mansion, and he hopes it scorches his parents’ eardrums as fiercely as it scares him to actually say these words.

Kikyou’s jaw slacks.

Killua can hardly bear to even think of how terrible the lashings will be later. He can already imagine his bones breaking and new bruises welling onto his exposed skin, but right now there’s no time for that. Desperately, he moves from his chair and bolts for the door—

A butler blocks his way. He turns, and finds Canary barricading the entrance as well, wielding her staff and staring unblinkingly towards him. Her eyes are beautiful even now, and he knows that she doesn’t want to, that she’s mouthing apologies in her mind and afraid to hurt him.

But, even then, he recollects the volatile threats, the concerns of Milluki touching her inappropriately, the image of his own eldest brother spilling her blood on the fine cobblestones winding to the entrance of the Zoldyck estate. Illumi would claim she deserved it—when in fact, she was the only person Killua valued as a companion. A companion, but not friends. They were forbidden from being friends 

In that instant, he forgives her, because she has no control.

None of them do.

* * *

Killua can barely walk the next day. He avoids every stare, ignores the thirty missed calls from Gon, the one missed call from Asher Perretti, the urge to call only one of them back… he ignores it all, because he has to. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the burning pain still cycling in his skull, the deep purple and blue marks swelling into his shoulder blades, the leather-whipped scars snaking up his back and new lines marking his ribcage. Even more so, he can’t bring himself to stop smiling at teachers and curling up his collar to conceal the finger-shaped marks from where his own father grabbed him and pinned him to the wall, warning him not to step out of line again. Never again. No, no, he has to though, he has no choice.

No choice. None. It can’t be helped.

So when Gon comes his way, he can’t speak to him.

* * *

Gon is untouchable. A pillar of strength that Killua does not deserve.

The moment he turns his back, secretly savoring how Gon had pulled him into an embrace he hadn’t expected, he doesn’t know what to think when the crazy teenager comes over and stops him on the sidewalk. The fire in those burning gold irises are enough to burn a path into the ocean and beyond.

“Killua. Please. Please tell me—”

“ _Fuck_ , Gon! Stay out of it!” He doesn’t want to hurt Gon. He bites his tongue, relishes the taste of his own coppery blood to distract himself. He’s a horrible, disposable fool for hurting Gon like this, for deliberately bringing harm to another person who bothered showing him care and concern. If his parents find out, Gon will be harmed. He has no doubt about it, and with the previous night’s debacle now tense and wound into his back, there’s little choice in the matter. The moment they find out about Gon, the moment he knows he will have to get the other teenager as far away from him as possible.

And Gon constantly sneaking up on him and demanding to know why—

“Killua. Please. Tell me who hurt you. Just this one thing.”

Of course it’s a pride thing.

Killua resists the urge to snarl, feels his fists close up with little strength he still has. He would laugh if he had the ability to do so, would scoff at how unpredictable and yet how simpleminded Gon Freecss could be. He can hardly think away from the punishment Canary could be going through at this very moment, all because she begged the other butlers to stop whipping him, to stop grabbing him, to stop inflicting wound upon wound upon wound upon wound—

“That would make you happy, wouldn’t it, Freecss?” Killua rolls his eyes. “Because, you know, that’s all this is, right? It’s all about your _pride_ , scoring the winning goal. I’ve heard what your teammates say about me, about me being a _Zoldyck_ because I won’t pretend we’re not all fucking cretins. I won’t waste your time anymore.”

Gon instantly retracts his hand—when had he even reached out to touch him?—as if he’d been stung, the red mark of Killua’s slap from earlier beginning to fade. His jaw visibly clenches, something dark and horrible lurking in those eyes, eyes that had rendered Killua breathless on many occasions, and still do now. Even now, when he knows he’s the source of that anger.

“Do you think I would hit you?”

Killua blinks. Once. Twice. Three times. He struggles to find a response, and looks, and actually _looks_ , at his companion this time.

Gon, for the first time since Killua has met him, looks exhausted and unprepared. He’s a child of spontaneity, borne of a hot summer sun and constant bell-chime laughter, stringing in people along the way and allowing them to bathe in his light. He takes joy in Killua’s missteps in math problems and his inability to talk about science in a way that doesn’t bring him some sense of nausea. He always encourages him to explain again, always buys him chocolate ice cream when he’s exhausted, always checks on him, asks him how he is, begs him to talk to him—

But he…

_No._

Gon Freecss would never hit him. But, he wouldn’t hit anyone, right?

“That doesn’t mean anything,” says Killua, half-convinced, half-unconvinced. Caught up in a storm he’s not sure how he’s created.

Gon shakes his head, not once leaving Killua’s gaze. “You’re my friend, Killua. You’re—you’re so important to me, and—and you’re so incredible and amazing and smart, and the thought of someone not seeing that and _hurting you_ …” He trails off, lost in his own mental hurricane, the first that Killua has seen of him.

He’s never seen Gon this angry.

For some rick reason, Killua feels a bolt of electric thrill traveling up his spine. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, or why, but he relishes the thought, the attention.

He wants Gon to look at him again and say those words on repeat.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

He swallows. What else can he even say?

“You hardly know me, Freecss. I’ve known you for seven months.”

Right. Only a few months. It’s not mathematically possible for Gon Freecss to experience some charge of friendly emotion for him that’s deeper than expected that quickly. It’s simply not the case. It can’t be.

“I thought you were amazing before I met you.”

Killua snorts, and before he can help it, he feels his ears and cheeks burn. The sudden trauma of the night before fades in favor of something lighter and more… delightful? He’s not sure, but the feeling is undoubtedly there, traveling and lingering like some inner worm.

“Don’t say stuff you don’t mean—”

“I don’t say stuff I don’t mean. Ever. You know that much.”

Gon’s confidence is simultaneously welcoming and heroic and annoying.

Killua snorts. “Oh yeah?”

He stumbles slightly, wincing at the aching in his knees and the horrible tenseness in his upper body. He knows that Gon can only see the one bruise he was careless to hide more carefully. The whips. The scars.

“Killua, are you okay? Can you stand?”

The Zoldyck isn’t listening.

Gon can’t know about them. Each scar is another step further into the Zoldyck family. Another step further into getting Gon hurt.

He can’t let that happen.

Then, Gon grabs Killua’s arms—gently and strongly, so firm and courageous and unexpected that it makes him think too hard—and positions him up again, nothing but concern and another unidentified emotion swimming in those amber-hued depths. Killua hates how those eyes affect him, how much his blood rushes through his neck and to his cheeks at the thought of leaning in, inhaling the scent of pine and mint and fresh rain-strewn soil…

_Holy shit. Stop. Stop. Stop. What are you thinking?_

He can’t. Not with Gon. Never with Gon.

Killua is so close to Gon now, and they’re both on the sidewalk, the other’s hands softening on Killua’s arms, slowly dropping to his wrists. He’s glancing over him with certainty and care and it drives Killua insane with unsureness. He should run, bolt as far as he can to avoid putting his friend in further danger.

Gon’s eyes fall to Killua’s lips and snap back up to meet his own gaze. It’s a movement as clandestine as breathing and as quick as a mouse’s heartbeat, but oh, it was _there_.

The fading light of the noonday sun casts a halo onto Gon’s hair, rippling across his skin in bursts and waves, turning the olive shade even lighter. His untucked uniform shirt is frumpy and ruined from running, sweat glistening on his neck, and there’s another intention crossing his features, one that Killua has refused to even accept as a possibility.

“Killua?”

Gon wants to help him.

_You can’t let him, though. You can’t._

His heart thuds. He’s not sure when he started hearing its rhythm under his chest, its steady pacing below his ribcage.

If he leaves now, he needs to return to his house, to his parents, to the butlers, to Canary, to the secrets lying beneath the Zoldyck hand, the secrets he’s tried to rescue that he is not allowed to talk about within those walls. He’s not allowed to without suffering the physical and mental pain that would be inflicted on… on…

_Something. Something. The name._

He doesn’t want to remember now, though. Gon is holding him. Gon—his friend, his companion, his confidant, is holding his arms so gently, as if he’s breakable, and part of that pisses him off because damn Freecss, he’s not a weakling.

But he is. And he knows this.

Gon’s hands drift further down, squeezing Killua’s hands. He startles at first, but doesn’t leave the intensity behind the others’ expression. An unspoken fire is stirring between them.

They are both silent. And Gon is still there, minutes into their standoff on the sidewalk, miles away from the front of Haverforth High School.

Killua’s heart speaks first.

“Don’t lie to me, Freecss.”

“I’m not.”

“Then let me go.”

“I’m not going to, Killua.”

“So now you choose to be calm? And focused? Seriously?”

A nod. “If I let go, you’ll leave. I can’t let you do that.”

“And why the hell not?!” A break. He can’t cry in front of him. He won’t.

“Killua—Killua, oh no, please, don’t cry—”

“Stop fucking talking, alright?”

“Killua, you’re hurt and someone did this to you. Just tell me—” 

Killua lurches forward and smashes his lips against Gon’s. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned for chapter three of Part 3! Thank you everyone for being willing to stay and keep up with me through this whole process. What do you think will happen in the last chapter of Part 3? 
> 
> Thank you everyone for your support, kudos, comments, and so forth. It means so much to me as a writer, especially during this busy, questionable time. Hope you enjoyed reading!


	3. Peddle Back and Screech to a Halt.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

It happens so fast that Gon isn’t sure if he’s dreaming or if Killua Zoldyck—his tutor, his friend, his confidant, his comrade, the stunning person he’d looked at in the hallways, the person he’d been hesitant to even talk to, the beautiful, deceptively kindhearted student; yes, _that one_ —is actually kissing him.

But whether or not he’s sure what’s happening, he reciprocates. Killua is aggressive and desperate and Gon’s hands awkwardly find themselves around Killua, though the other teenager isn’t interested in this. The Zoldyck pushes his hands away and pushes Gon against the nearest solid surface—the brick wall of a building’s corner, the sign to said building completely ignored by both of them. Killua is pushing against him, but Gon pushes back, their teeth clanging against each other, lips bruising and wet and rushed and _terrifyingly quick_. Gon does not dare open his eyes in fear of waking from a dream.

Gon’s heart slams against his chest, a thousand emotions and impulses rushing through his system. He wants to kiss Killua further, pin him against the wall and prove to him how incredible of a person he is, show him why he doesn’t deserve the treatment that’s been bestowed onto him. He wants to tell the other how handsome and outright beautiful he is in both spectrums, mesmerized by his intelligence, his laugh, his adventurous spirit, his impossibly silver hair, his stunning ocean-shore eyes, his loyal, kind heart—

Then, something disrupts his fleeting thoughts. He flips them around, and Killua is back against the wall, and they are both staring into one another for the first time. The Zoldyck is panting, and both are surely sweating at this point from the rush without one stop, their breaths leaving them in blocked gasps. The cotton of their uniforms are stained with perspiration from the hot sun. Gon looks over Killua’s ivory skin, the flush riding up his neck and coloring his cheeks a faint rosy hue. They’re striking in this angle, overshadowed just slightly by the sweep of Killua’s silver-white bangs. Gon swallows and almost shakes; he can’t even process how lucky he is.

But, his assumption was correct. Aside from the bruises marring his friend’s flesh, his collarbones ripe with red and deep purples and greens, Gon notes the fierce wetness staining Killua’s cheeks, his teeth gnawing into his lips. He’s not saying a word, just glaring back with forced strength, clinging to those separate moments of desperation and confusion.

Killua’s eyes—as beautiful and dreadfully alluring as they have always been—are bloodshot with tears.

Gon’s desire to kiss Killua again instantly shies away. A cloud of dread swallows him, weighs on his shoulders, colors his vision slightly blurry. His fists clench against the bricks, right above Killua’s own shoulders as he struggles to keep his composure. Utter silence is filled only with the slight sounds of their ragged breathing and Gon’s temper rising in their proximity.

“Why did you stop?”

The question rings with so much pain it grips Gon’s heart in icy claws.

“… Killua—”

Then, Killua laughs.

And it’s the most heart-shattering sound Gon has ever heard in his life.

He steps back, and slowly shakes his head, feeling utterly helpless. His friend is barking as and leaning forward, his hands grappling his knees, the sound melodious and totally broken. Gon Freecss has witnessed many things that he hadn’t expected—his own father leaving his front doorstep being one of many inopportune memories—but seeing Killua like this, witnessing the so-called pillar of perfection of Haverforth High School break into a million pieces is something that should never be seen.

His sudden— _no, no, it’s never been sudden_ —desire for Killua is grating like knives across the other thoughts he has towards the mysterious people who’s harmed him. Those hand-shaped markings are huge and long-fingered, somehow elegant and pronounced yet distinguishable mainly by the shape of their shadows. He would assume it was a relative of Killua’s with the similarities, but how is that possible? His own family wouldn’t dare do this to their own son, would they?

Then again, he doesn’t know anything about Killua. His tutor has been at his side, letting him pour over his ridiculously awful papers and notes with barely any indication that he was getting bored, often bribing him with chocolate to “make up for his horrid lack of grammatical prowess.” Gon had always obliged, mainly because he thought his tutor was attractive and was determined to get closer to him as a companion. He was drawn to Killua and couldn’t explain why.

He had no reason to be so interested in one of the most mysterious and clean-cut people on high school grounds, so inflicted with public rumors and gossip that it seemed to physically cling to him like disfigured clothespins.

“Why are you laughing?” Gon asks. As soon as he says it, he wishes he hadn’t. Killua might not want to talk about why he’s laughing and crying a the same time. He’d been called selfish and insensitive by his teammates on numerous occasions, so why would this be any different? Even with someone as incredible and smart as Killua Zoldyck?

But it doesn’t seem to even phase Killua. The other student slowly leans back up and brushes down his sleeves, a glossy blankness layering over his eyes. He stares at Gon and breathes shallowly.

“I…” He blinks, and a sudden realization seems to dawn on him, because he looks absolutely horrified. His blush remains still on his skin, and Gon, guiltily, wants to push aside any questions and simply kiss him again. There is nothing more to him in this moment than to please the other person in front of him, but Killua’s mask of confusion and self-loathing is indescribable. “Gon, I—god, fuck, I’m so sorry—”

“No!” Gon shouts before he can stop himself. Killua stares at him blankly. “Don’t—Killua, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. I… I’m at fault too. I’m sorry.” His fingers clench and unclench from within his palms, delving sharp indentations into his skin. He’s sure that he’s bleeding at this point, with how ferociously his nails are driving through the flesh. He doesn’t care about the sharp stings. “I’m sorry.”

Killua runs a hand through his hair, his jaw tight and wired. A moment of tense silence passes between them, the distance growing in mind if not in the actual alleyway. Robins sing to one another in the distant horizon, the sky fading into a darker hue.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I just, ugh.” Killua shakes his head, exasperated. Exhausted. Too many emotions flicker through his eyes for Gon not to notice. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

Gon blinks owlishly. “Do you…” He hesitates. “Do you regret it?”

The look Killua sends him is baffling. “Wha—I mean, yeah! Neither of us wanted that.”

Gon’s heart plummets to his toes. He takes back the threads of hope he’d seen stretched out before him, and tries to calm the racing of his instincts. Somehow, his skepticism remains, and he can’t help but scope Killua from head to toe, wondering if there’s some physical indication that can lend him some sort of clue.

“You sure?”

Killua’s brow furrows, a small, trembling smile overtaking his lips. Lips bruised by Gon’s own force, his willingness to reciprocate his reckless instinct. There was something there, and Gon wasn’t going to let his friend get away with pretending that it meant nothing.

“What kind of a question is that, Freecss?” Killua furiously wipes at his nose. “I already apologized, alright? Let’s just forget any of this ever happened. I have to go.” He shifts to his left, but Gon is faster; he slams his hand onto the wall in front of Killua’s face. His tutor turns and stares at him, pupils flickering like a black ball across a ping pong table. The shock registering and twisting up his facial features would make Gon laugh if not for the seriousness of the situation. “The hell is wrong with you?”

Gon actually has the audacity to snort at this comment. “Come on Killua, that’s hardly fair. What’s going on? And why are you so afraid to talk to me about anything?”

The Zoldyck growls and steps closer, inches from Gon’s face. He can trace the last dapple of sunlight tracing Killua’s lashes.

“It’s not your place.”

“What, because you’re my tutor? Or because you’re my friend?”

_Maybe more than that?_

He doesn’t add this last statement. Their encounter is fresh on his mind, and it’s remarkable he hasn’t pinned Killua to the wall and just kissed him senseless at this point. He wants to show the other person how incredible he is, but there’s more to the bruises and lies Killua has told him than he originally understood.

He wants to know everything. Needs to know everything.

“Gon, you don’t _get it_ , okay? You can’t be involved. Do you have any idea how much shit I’ve gotten into with my parents already? When they found out I was tutoring you, even, I got twenty more lashes than normal—”

Killua’s jaw snaps shut and he shakes his head, furious.

Gon’s mind blanks.

_Lashes?_

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. _No._

“ _What_?”

Killua must have heard him speak, because his entire body turns from languid to rigid and petrified like some perfect marble Zoldyck statue, his features paling lighter than a cloud. He swallows, and his flush completely vanishes in favor of a sick bluish color, sweat beading onto his temples.

He’s realized his mistake.

Gon’s emotions zero in on the image of Killua, terrified, braced against his will, the back of his shirt forcefully ripped open as a menacing, large whip cracks and cracks and _cracks_ against his back. He watches in his mind’s eye, disturbed, angry beyond belief, at the false image he’s sure is close to the real thing, but what evil creature is holding the whip?What awful person is willing to deal this damage to his friend? To a person as pure and amazing and incredible as Killua?

_No one hurt Killua._

His fists are bunched harder than they have in a long time, as if a boxer bracing for his first and last fight in the ring. His nails turn into stubs on callouses.

_They must pay._

He has to find them. He has to find the culprit, and demand for them to make things right with Killua, demand that they pay Killua back for all of the pain they’ve inflicted on him—

“Gon?”

It’s soft and careful. Scared. Composed.

Gon slowly returns, and he realizes how many seconds have passed. He slowly draws his eyes down his shaking form, and notes with a slight wince how he’s slammed his clenched fist into the brick wall, shattering the red stone and causing fragments to disperse in dozens of broken fragments. Blood wells over his knuckles and trickles along the cement lining, the pop of numerous sprained bones in his fingers _snapping_ from an action he can’t recall ever doing.

“Hey. Gon. Are you there?”

Gon blinks and rapidly shakes his head, teeth grinding at the newfound pain bursting through his arm. He knows he’s broken several smaller bones, and that will cost him in the rest of his sports season. But none of that matters right now.

Killua reaches forward and takes Gon’s hand, bringing it over to his chest. Gon blinks at this action, a sudden warmth slithering into his chest and wrapping gently around his heart. He watches as the Zoldyck’s brow furrows in concentration, turning around Gon’s damaged ligament, frustration and guilt evident on his face. He glances up at Gon, blank.

“Idiot. You broke a few bones because you can’t control your temper? The hell is wrong with you?” He drops Gon’s hand, shaking his head. “Come on.”

Gon’s jaw slacks and he watches as Killua walks off, his hands in his pockets.

“Wait, what—”

“Your hand is _broken_ , stupid.” Killua doesn’t even bother looking at him, but Gon can sense the tenseness in the other’s shoulders, the regret lacing through each and every word like a leeched syllable. “I’m taking you the hospital.” He then pulls out his phone, dialing a number.

Gon’s brow furrows. “Neither of us have cars.”

Mito hardly lends him her car long enough for him to have it for after school. And with his broken hand, none of that would be useful, anyway.

“Yeah. I know. Bear with me, alright?” Killua sighs and brings the phone up to his ear, clearing his throat. He turns on his heel and leans against the opposite wall of the alley, again not willing to look Gon in the eye. His profile is slanted over with the disappearing light of the evening-dipped sun.

Gon’s heart skips. Having a person like Killua so close to him all the time is both the greatest blessing and, at times, the most frustrating curse. And now he knows what Killua tastes like.

Chocolate, cologne and the slightest hints of sandalwood and cucumber. It’s a perfect combination, as far as he’s concerned—

“Yeah. Hey. Don’t get used to hearing from me.”

Gon perks up, and curiosity snatches him before he can help himself. He watches Killua’s features harden for a moment, and then struggle to hold back a grin of some kind of misplaced amusement. Instantly, a competitive unsureness spikes in Gon’s bloodstream, like some unwelcome parasite he’s unsure he’s controlling or not.

“Sure, sure. Whatever. I don’t—what? Are you serious?” Killua snorts and looks somewhat baffled for a moment, his cheeks staining the slightest shade of pink. Gon tilts his head to the side and wants to come closer to eavesdrop, but Killua will break even more bones in his body if he dares to try. “Fine. Just… whatever. Okay. Yes. Yes. Like half a block from school. Can you get here soon? His hand is messed up pretty bad.” Killua’s other hand moves and twists in his pocket, visible in the outline of the cloth. “Yeah. Bye.”

Gon bites his lip as Killua hangs up, a long, tired sigh escaping into the open.

“Who was that?”

Killua glances at him. Half-shrugs. “Asher. He owes me a favor so I’m taking him up on that. You’re more of his friend so there’s no reason he’d say no to taking us to the hospital.”

A warm, venomous sensation settles in Gon’s stomach. Bile rises in his throat, but he pushes it down in favor of coming closer to Killua, keeping just a slight distance as to not bother the other. He wants to ask a million questions— _how does Asher even have Killua’s number? And vice versa? How often do they talk? Are they dating? Does Killua like Asher? Does Asher like Killua? What in the world is even happening?—_ but knows it’s not the right time.

They stand next to each other in silence, staring into the asphalt street and waiting for one particular vehicle to come over and park by the curb.

Gon exhales. “Killua—”

“I’m not going to answer any questions, Gon.”

He still refuses to look Gon in the eye, only mere minutes after planting his lips onto the other teenager’s and engaging in a fight for dominance over each other. Their encounter was hot and heavy and desperate, and the instincts that drove Killua to do so were rooted in something else entirely.

“I’m not going to ask a question.” Gon shrugs. “Just wanted to say that I don’t regret it.”

Killua blinks, raises one eyebrow at him.

A small, barely noticeable smile cracks the corners of Gon’s mouth. He glances at Killua, and musters the courage to _wink_. “Our kiss. I don’t regret it. I hope you don’t either.”

Killua immediately turns the deepest shade of red Gon has ever seen, and for the first time that evening, he bursts into genuine, guttural laughter, delighted in the appalled, innocent way his friend’s freckles become more pronounced than stars in the night sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading the third (and FINAL) chapter of Part 3 of this series! Part 4 will be up soon! 
> 
> Here's a hint: yes, Asher will become much more prominent in Part 4, and don't worry, there will be plenty more development between Killua and Gon. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter for what it was!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! This work may actually end up being three chapters instead of two, but we'll see.


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